


Some are Born to sweet delight

by Tiofrean



Series: Life in the time of peace [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: A Pinch of Angst in a Bucket of Fluff, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Comfort, Developing Relationship, Faramir's Best Quality, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Short & Sweet, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24863428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: “Were you this careful with your rangers?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, the king knows it. It doesn’t stop him, though. He can feel Faramir tensing underneath him and, before he knows what’s happening, the young prince has them rolling over, laying Aragorn flat on his back and pressing him into the mattress with his whole weight.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Life in the time of peace [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827703
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Some are Born to sweet delight

**Author's Note:**

> I've heard somewhere (tumblr dot com) that LOTR can be read as Tolkien intended or as Fandom intended. So, let us plunge into what Tolkien intended... Aragorn is a 87 yo virgin. And there's nothing wrong with that per se, it's just... he wants to be with his steward... 
> 
> Yeah. I had a vision and I wrote it out. MermaidSheenaz checked it over. All remaining mistakes are on me. Enjoy!

Warmth. So much warmth to be found in the human body. So much hidden delight and so much hesitation weaving around it.

“My king.” Half-whispered, falling from hungry lips right into his lungs, breathing air into him. Aragorn groans and bends down, folding himself over his steward.  
“I do not wish to be your king.” 

A quiet chuckle, a hand stroking fondly through his hair. Sparkling pleasure slithering down his spine and making him shiver. He hides his face in Faramir’s neck, inhales deeply.  
“What _do_ you wish, Aragorn?” A simple question without easy answers. He ponders it quietly, trying to ignore the ache inside him, but it proves to be too difficult. A soft touch to his cheek, fingers sliding back and behind his ear, a mindless caress with no agenda and no purpose other than to pass the time in fond alliance.  
“You.” The answer appearing finally, dragged from within his heart, within his loins, heated and shivery at the same time.  
“And you have me.” There is the fondness again, that warm blossom spreading slowly inside his chest, radiating from Faramir like a shining star, beckoning him closer. 

He’s straddling his steward like he would a mount, but there will probably be no riding today. His leg is still hurting, stiff and painful after his unplanned fall from Brego due to his sudden skittishness. A snake slithering on the ground is sometimes too much for a brave horse to handle. 

He should get off, should not pin Faramir to the bed with all his weight - it is not courteous to do so, not on the first night they are together in the safety of the closed rooms. Later, maybe later… maybe…  
“Stop.” 

And just like that, he stills, with both of Faramir’s arms wrapped around his back and keeping him close, with his face hidden in Faramir’s shoulder. The intoxicating scent of him is slowly driving Aragorn mad, and he inhales more, hoping to get drunk on it.  
“I’m heavy,” he feels the need to clarify, but only gets an incredulous bark of laughter in answer. He falls quiet, letting his hands twist between them, until his fingers can fist two handfuls of Faramir’s tunic.  
“You are not nearly heavy enough,” comes after a moment, but the merriment is seeping out of Faramir’s words, a frown forming on his forehead that Aragorn can almost _feel._ “Why would you think that?”  
“Nobody liked it.” A simple truth, a statement that somehow digs at his steward more than it does at him, for those arms are now clenched around him in a fierce embrace, not letting him move an inch. The quietness screams around them for a moment longer, too tender to stop it. 

“I’m not an Elf,” Faramir says finally, huffing almost angrily. The words have a possessive ring to them, not quite visible in their meaning, but loud and clear when paired with the seriousness in his voice. “Besides, I like it.” 

With such absolution, with an invitation as blatant as this one, Aragorn lets himself rest fully on Faramir’s body, melting into him like ice melts on Caradhras in summer. And his steward bears it with a content sigh and suddenly mobile hands which, no longer concerned with keeping his king close, start to roam over his back. Broad strokes, pressure applied carefully along his spine and down to his hips, moving back up to explore the stretch of his shoulder. Aragorn groans quietly, muffling the sound in the soft material under his mouth, biting it to contain the sounds somehow. The gentle pleasure that is running through him turns lazily to fire, flames licking his skin in a fashion previously unknown. Somehow, it all feels deeper, fuller, more overwhelming. 

Hazily, he wonders whether the stories about Numenorean heritage are true, whether the blood in him recognizes the make of Faramir, too. But it all gets lost in the fluttering fog of lust that falls upon him, and he moans helplessly, unable to stop his body from moving. 

With Elves it was always clean, detached almost, as if their brains were busy remembering poetry and old stories while they rolled around in freshly fallen leaves. With Halbarad it was quick and fierce, rushed hands and hungry mouths. Before he fell in love with Arwen, before he promised himself to her, charmed by her eternal beauty and deaf to the voice of reason, he had tasted only too-quick encounters and hastily used fingers. There was pleasure, but it has never been so all-encompassing as this simple, mindless grinding of hips against hips. 

A true enchantment if he has ever seen one. 

“Tell me what you want?” Lips whisper heatedly into his ear, the barest hint of a tongue sneaking out to lick along the shell. He jolts and gasps, plastering himself to Faramir’s front, hoping not to come off as an embarrassment among the Kings of Men. All the mithril in the world wouldn’t be enough to make him look royal now, with his hair messed up, his face hiding in Faramir’s neck and his manhood rubbing insistently against Faramir’s front.  
“I want you,” it’s surprisingly easy to say, but whatever should follow is not coming, for the steward has his fingers fisted in his hair unexpectedly and is tugging at it. It’s nowhere near enough to be painful, a tease more than actual hurt, and the thrill of sensation it causes makes Aragorn arch up. He looks at Faramir through half-lidded eyes, licks his lips and waits.  
“How?”  
“I… _oh Eru…”_ And there it is, the crippling lack of experience, forced by years of haste and hard promises to immortal beings. He closes his eyes with a shaky exhale, finding again the safe space between Faramir’s shoulder and neck. Curse it, curse _them._

However, his steward is gifted not only with foretelling dreams but also with heart-reading capabilities. There is a pause and in it, silence stretches uncomfortably. Aragorn doesn’t dare move, doesn’t even twitch, apart from his fingers tightening their hold, creasing the fine linen beyond hope of ever ironing it out. 

“What _have_ you done?” Faramir asks finally, and it’s clear from his inquiring tone that he does not mean the tunic. The answer should be simple, uncomplicated as is it - _not much, only what I could in the time I had._ But voicing it out loud seems somehow silly for all the years he has spent on Arda.  
“Faramir…” he mumbles helplessly, no longer caring whether he’s squishing his steward with his weight. He flattens himself against the broad chest, pulls his knees higher, tight around Faramir’s waist. There is irony here somewhere, hiding in the shadows of the King of Men and the Prince of Ithilien, lost in a soft bed for two different reasons.  
“Tell me,” Faramir prompts, his fingers resuming the careful combing-through of Aragorn’s hair. The king shivers, shifts, then cannot stop himself from rubbing against his lover. 

With a heavy exhale, he mutters his answer into the delicate skin of Faramir’s neck. Attack is sometimes the best defense, and no matter how he wishes that it wouldn’t be so, old habits die hard.  
“What does that matter?” He asks in turn, too-aware of his voice being harsh even when it’s all hushed. Thankfully, Faramir proves himself far more mature than his age would hint at, and he doesn’t rise to the unintentional bait.  
“I do not wish to hurt you,” he explains simply, carefully. “Doing something you’re not familiar with could do more harm than good when it’s done too quickly, and I would never do that.” 

Silence stretches again, broken by the quiet rasp of hands moving over his back, gentling him as if he is a startled horse in need of calming. He heaves in a breath, then another, Faramir’s scent making his head spin. The solidness of his body under Aragorn’s makes the king feel more secure than he had in months... _years,_ probably. Using that to his advantage, he tries to collect his mind enough to form a coherent sentence and not embarrass himself, but Faramir’s fingers inching closer to the hem of his shirt are making it difficult. When they dip underneath, sliding lower and into the loose breeches he’s wearing, the only thing he can do is gasp breathlessly, closing his eyes to concentrate on the feeling. 

“Have you ever…” And the question crawls away slowly, the understated truth of his long years spent in the wild, guarding nothing but the borders, using nothing but his own devices. Aragorn groans softly, half-irritated, half-wanton. The fingers dancing over his ass make him shiver pleasantly, and he longs for them to go further, deeper. 

He rethinks the unfinished question, turning it over in his head and pondering the meaning. He hardly realizes that he is nuzzling his face into Faramir’s shoulder like a touch-starved cat from the streets of Bree. _Ah! Bree! The one place with soft and cheap beds!_ Panting, he opens his mouth to answer, but his voice is raspier than he has anticipated, and he has to swallow and clear his throat to make any sort of coherent sound. 

“Were you this careful with your rangers?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, the king knows it. It doesn’t stop him, though. He can feel Faramir tensing underneath him and, before he knows what’s happening, the young prince has them rolling over, laying Aragorn flat on his back and pressing him into the mattress with his whole weight. There is something comforting in this position, despite Faramir’s eyes being nearly black from arousal, and the king melts into the pillows, a sigh escaping him when Faramir trails his hands down his body.  
“Yes.” The steward answers the unnecessary inquiry, and Aragorn’s breath hitches when his clever fingers push the shirt up, before they come down to pull the breeches down his legs. 

The air around them is cold, and Aragorn hisses as it breezes over his exposed skin - a thing quickly remedied by Faramir’s body covering his completely, narrow hips invited closer by Aragorn’s widening legs.  
“My king…” Faramir murmurs reverently, his mouth somehow finding its way to Aragorn’s ear.  
“Were you always this hesitant, then?” The king corrects his inquiry from a few moments earlier, his tongue peeking out to lick at his suddenly dry lips. The friction between them is exquisite and he feels as if he could find release just like that, with Faramir’s hips grinding slowly into him, a very insistent hardness pressing against his own. 

But, the prince draws away slightly, looking at him curiously.  
“No. I was never this hesitant with my rangers… But they never minded a bit of pain.” This statement, as simple as it is, makes Aragorn frown.  
“I don’t mind pain, either.” It needs to be said, even though, after being beaten black and blue, after being stomped over by trolls, he thinks it is pretty clear by now.  
“Well, I do.” Faramir says easily. “Especially when it comes to you.” 

And they’re kissing again, long and slow, with Faramir seemingly set on conquering the entirety of Aragorn’s mouth. The king doesn’t mind it one bit, receives the claim enthusiastically, until his hazy mind registers that Faramir is slowly slithering down. It comes almost as a shock when he cannot follow the descent of him any longer and is forced to part with that wicked tongue - the same one that is laving over his abdomen in the next moment, leaving a burning trail of cold wet, making him shudder and twist in the sheets. 

It lasts for a time, a few maddening minutes of Aragorn losing his mind to the quiver of his burning skin, and then Faramir scoots lower and grips his length- 

_Hot._ Faramir’s mouth is so hot around him that the king cries out loudly, a wordless sound of adoration and surrender. He can feel the pain of his muscles clenching, his back tightening because he is trying so hard not to move and put an end to this. Faramir doesn’t seem to mind, a quiet puff of laughter escaping him around his king’s manhood, before he takes him deeper in, further into the furnace, and _oh, but Aragorn is going to shout obscenities to the ceiling very soon…_

“By Eru! _Mir…”_ The prince pulls off, licks his lips and grins, then pushes two of his own fingers into his mouth. The sight of it should be ridiculous, it should make Aragorn snort and laugh, but somehow, it only makes him moan like a tavern wench working for tips, and he can’t help the dog-like panting his breathing is turning into, as he watches those fingers disappear somewhere between his legs. 

He is not ignorant, he is not a fool. He has tried it before, this particular act. The fact that nothing else happened, that nothing more profound followed, doesn’t make this alien or scary. But the anticipation is there, the shock of the breech as delightful as it’s surprising, and the king throws his head back, mouth open to gulp in some much-needed air. The fingers slip inside, explore, then set a rhythm that - thankfully - is easy to follow with uncoordinated thrusts of hips. Aragorn tries that, whimpering when they brush over a spot inside him that makes him close his eyes tightly. 

“Faramir!” It’s a warning, let out through gritted teeth. If they want to- If _Faramir wants to_ \- do anything else tonight, it is not going to happen, lest he ceases all his movements right now.  
“Let go.” A whispered command is his answer, and his lips close around the tip of Aragorn’s length, and the king has no other choice but to follow. Pleasure sweeps through him like a storm and leaves him breathless, gasping like a shored fish, melting into the bed once more. 

He winces when Faramir withdraws his fingers, feeling suddenly, curiously, _crushingly_ empty and cold. But the separation doesn’t last for long and soon, the prince is once again stretching over him, the hardness in his trousers evident against Aragorn’s hip. The king is not a fool, he knows how the deed is done, even if he has never done it himself. Carefully, suspecting that his bones have somehow turned into the mush from the marshes, he frames Faramir’s face in his palms and brings him up for a kiss. The prince answers him with a moan, his tongue conquering once again, impatient and needy. 

“Please, continue,” Aragorn whispers when they break for air, feeling the shivers coursing through his prince as keenly as he would his own. But Faramir shakes his head slightly, turning his attention to the king’s neck, laving at it with his tongue and nibbling with sharp teeth.  
“No.” He grunts out, rushed. “I have no oil here. No salve...” he continues raspily, his hips bucking up when Aragorn’s hands fall down to undo the trousers. “I do not wish to hurt you. Later?” And it’s all that is said on the matter for now, because Aragorn’s fingers close around the hot flesh, and all he can do is moan heatedly. 

It turns out to be enough - more than enough. A few moments later they are both gasping for air, resting in a tangled heap of bodies and linen, with Faramir’s robes keeping them both warm. Aragorn is still stuck underneath him and he cannot help but wonder why wouldn’t any of his Elven lovers like this position - in all his years as a ranger, and now as a king, he has never felt as safe and secure as when he lies there under Faramir’s weight, with his prince’s ribs pressing into him as they work for another mouthful of air. 

“Are you alright?” A quiet whisper asks, and Aragorn grins widely, watching the shadows play on the ceiling above them. He tries to shift a bit, feeling his toes getting cold, but his previously injured leg protests the movement with a twinge. It is almost funny how he has forgotten all about it. In the light of holding his prince close, it had somehow faded into the background over the last hour.  
“I’ve never been better,” he answers, content, nuzzling into Faramir’s shoulder. The prince sighs and slides to the side, rummaging behind himself with one hand until he comes up with an edge of a blanket. It looks old, worn out, and is soft as a feather when it’s wrapped around them both, cocooning them in warmth. 

With a yawn, the king settles down next to his steward, feeling the pull of sleep. As two arms wrap around him to pull him close, he can only think of the tone of Faramir’s voice when he promised a “later” to their endeavour. When Aragorn drifts away, it is with a smile on his face - one that is still there to be witnessed by Faramir in the morning. 


End file.
